


Whole Lotta Love Run Riot

by KaraRenee



Series: Red Letter Day [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Barry Manilow songs, Fluff, Kew Royal Botanic Gardens, M/M, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft gets dating advice from John, Mycroft has friends, Mycroft is a Barry Manilow fan, Parentlock, Queen Charlotte's cottage, Rimming, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-28 08:46:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10082054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaraRenee/pseuds/KaraRenee
Summary: Since John and Sherlock's wedding Mycroft and Greg have been exploring their new relationship.  Mycroft has been getting dating advice from his new brother in law.  But, the course of true love never did run smooth.  Once Mycroft realizes the depths of his feelings for the hot D.I., there is angst.  And John angry texting. And over 40 football clubs.John is also working on his renewed relationship with his mother.  There are references to original characters from the rest of the Red Letter Day series - D.I. Miller, Molly's boyfriend Barry. And I introduced a few new characters to help move the plot along.  I hope you enjoy!





	

The pub was bustling with diners. The waitress placed the two pints on their table, winked, and moved on.  John smiled at her. Greg clasped his beer in both hands.  He stared into the foam.

 

“You don’t look good, mate. What’s going on?”  John sipped his beer.

 

“I’m knackered.”

 

“Interesting case?  You should let us in on it.  We’ve got a pretty light caseload right now.”

 

“I’m… seeing someone.”

 

John hid his smirk behind the foam on his beer. 

 

“Oh?” John feigned ignorance.  “How’s it going?”

  
  


_ Brother-in-law, I need dating advice. - MH _

 

_ I’m sorry, you must have the wrong number.  My brother in law doesn’t date. - JWH _

 

_ John, I’m serious.  I need help. I’m on my way over. - MH _

  
  


“Exhausting.” Greg took a long swig of his drink. 

 

John chuckled.  

 

“That’s great.  Really.  But it’s early days, yeah?  So that will wane.  You’ll settle into a schedule and sleep again.”

 

“Is that what happened with you and Sherlock?”

 

John’s smile changed from amused to thoughtful.  “Well, it was different for us.  We have Olivia.  Kids change things.  Like intimate moments.  Makes the romance stuff less spontaneous.”

 

“How do you know it’s early days?” Greg sat up straight.

 

“You weren’t seeing anyone a month ago at my wedding.  You would have said. So I figured it’s new since then.”

 

_ “Seriously, Mycroft?  I had no idea.” _

 

_ “Look, John, the whole evening took me by surprise.  I don’t believe in romantic entanglements…” _

 

_ “Yet you’re here asking me help plan your date?” _

 

_ Mycroft dropped his head, hands resting on the hook of his umbrella. _

 

_ “You’re here asking me to help plan your  _ _ third _ _ date with my good friend, best man at my wedding, because you hooked up with him at my reception.” _

 

_ Mycroft sighed.  “Yes.” _

 

“It’s someone I’ve known for a while.  We were at an… event together and things just happened.”

 

John lifted his glass again.  He was struggling to contain his grin.  Greg wouldn’t keep his eyes on his drink all night.

 

“You know, I may want something more than nibbles.  Pass me that menu.”  

 

Greg handed him the menu.  He ran his hands through his hair.  It stood at odd angles, a messy halo of silver.  

 

John held up the menu to cover his face. 

 

“It was a hook-up at first.  I may have been too drunk to have thought about it fully.”

 

John nodded.

 

“But once I got sober I realized it wasn’t because I had been drunk.  I really wanted it to happen.  Then we had breakfast the next day. And we went out on New Year’s Eve.  And again the weekend after that.  But now we have been taking turns staying at each other’s houses every night.   _ Every night _ , John.  I’m beat.”

 

John kept his face behind the laminated bar menu.  He noted how carefully Greg had been avoiding the use of pronouns.  

  
  


_ Is it too soon to ask him to move in with me? - MH _

 

_ Jesus, Mycroft, YES it’s too sodding early.  What the hell happened after the planetarium? - JWH _

 

_ I have been staying at his flat, or he’s been coming to my house every night. - MH _

 

_ Every night?  What are you two, teenagers? - JWH _

 

_ Don’t be crass, John.  We aren’t engaging in sexual activity every night. - MH _

 

_ There are some things I don’t need to know. - JWH _

 

_ I need your help, John.  Please. - MH _

  
  
  


“Are you actually going to order something?” Greg pulled the menu down from John’s face.

 

Tears rimmed John’s eyes.  He bit his lips in a failed attempt to hide his smile.

 

“YOU KNOW.” Greg hissed loudly.  “That bastard.”

 

“Did you enjoy the planetarium?”

 

“Yeah. That was really ro… oh fucking hell.  Was that your idea?”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

“The bouquet of Australian game jerky was a nice touch.  Your idea?”

 

“I know how you like to have protein snacks in your desk.”

 

“He had them laid out in a box meant for two dozen roses.  I’d never seen so much jerky in one place.”

 

“Neither of you are young men anymore, Greg. How’s your knee?”

 

Greg, elbows on the table, hid his face in his hands.  “Just kill me now.”

 

“Did you want to order off the menu, luv?” The waitress stood with her pad and pen in her hands.

 

“Um, yeah.  Double order of chips. And can I get a bottle of brown sauce? Ta.”

 

“Why haven’t you killed me yet?”  Greg mumbled into his palms.

 

“Mmm… probably because you’ve got a date later this evening and my brother-in-law gets very testy if people are late.”

 

“Jesus Christ.  Did you help him plan tonight as well?”

 

“Calm down, Greg.  He came up with this one on his own.”

 

_ “I am thinking of taking Greg to a dance.” _

 

_ “I … what?” _

 

_ “My club is having a gentlemen’s social dance evening.” _

 

_ John screwed up his face in confusion.  “The Diogenes Club has dances?” _

 

_ “I belong to more than one club, John.  Saturday is an evening of social dancing like foxtrot and tango and waltz.  Do you think he’d enjoy that?” _

 

_ “You know what, Mycroft?  I have no idea about anything anymore.” _

 

“He told me to wear a suit. And he sent me a pair of ballroom dance shoes.”

 

The waitress placed the large plate of still sizzling chips and the bottle of HP between them. 

 

“Here, dig in,” John opened the bottle of sauce.  “I need to be home by six. Olivia has been entertaining Harry and my mum all afternoon.”

 

“How’s that going, by the way?” Greg said around a mouthful of hot potatoes.

 

“Pretty good.  I mean, I’m still … I dunno… smarting from what happened with my dad last year.  That pain sits soul deep.  Ya know?”  

 

“As depressing as it is, I’m glad my parents aren’t alive.  Not sure how they’d take all this.”

 

“On the plus side,” John smothered three chips in brown sauce before shoving them into his mouth.  “His parents are very laid back. I think they’d mostly be surprised that Mycroft has feelings.”

 

Greg threw a chip at him.  “Oi!  He’s very tender.”

 

“Mate, the less I know, the happier I am.”

 

***

 

Olivia marched into the kitchen, tiny fists on her hips. Her blonde curls were up in pigtails. Her red jumper was long and covered her to mid-thigh.  She wore leggings with cartoonish chemistry formulas.   Sherlock sat at the table, microscope and old files littering the surface.

 

“Papa!”

 

“Not now, Olivia.  Go play with Aunt Harry and your grandmother.”

 

“Papa,” she whispered earnestly.  “Is not my gramma.”  She flexed her fingers on Sherlock’s leg anxiously.

 

“Oh.” He pushed the chair back, abandoning the slides he had been studying from a Victorian cold case.  Whenever she was anxious she would clench and unclench her hands. “Come here.”  

 

She pulled herself into his lap. Her little fingers grasped the lapels of his jacket.  

 

“You know how Grandma and Grandpa are Papa’s mum and dad?” 

 

Olivia nodded.

 

“Well, Nana is your father’s mother.”

 

Olivia shook her head.

 

“No?” He smiled tenderly at his daughter and kissed her chubby pink cheek.  “Okay, then.  Who is Daddy’s mother?”

 

“Nanny.”

 

“Ah.  Mrs. Hudson is our landlady.  She owns this house.  She isn’t Daddy’s mum.”

 

Olivia’s large blue eyes narrowed.  She looked so like John when she did not believe what Sherlock was saying.  

 

Sherlock sighed. “You know that Uncle Mycroft is my brother? And Grandma and Grandpa are our parents?”

 

Olivia nodded slowly.

 

“Well, Daddy and Aunt Harry are brother and sister.  They have the same mum and dad. Their dad is a  bit of a prat, so you don’t know him. But Margaret, that’s your Nana, is Daddy’s mother.”

 

John walked into the kitchen.  “Hey, how’s my girl?”

 

Olivia, still standing on Sherlock’s lap, fingers in a vice grip on his jacket, turned her suspicious gaze towards John.  “Your dad is a prat.”

 

John scratched above his ear with one finger.  “Yeah. Um, Sherlock, where are Harriet and my mother?”

 

Harry appeared in the doorway to the sitting room.  “Hey, Johnny.  We were just upstairs cleaning up Olivia’s toys.  We’ve had a busy afternoon.  Olivia showed mum how you and Sherlock got married with her dolls.”

 

John mouthed at his husband “We will talk about that later” before he scooped up Olivia and headed towards the sitting room. 

 

Olivia glared at Sherlock over John’s shoulder. 

 

“See?” he mouthed.

 

She raised one white-blonde eyebrow at him before she disappeared around the corner.

 

“Did you have fun with Auntie Harry and Nana?”  John tugged the front of Olivia’s jumper and kissed her curls.  

 

“Yeah-huh.” She snuggled against his neck. 

 

“Aw, sweet girl.” Harry twirled her finger around one little pigtail. “We took her to the park for a walk, then we had our tea at a cafe.”   
  


“Had pasta for tea, Daddy.”

 

“With sauce and cheese?” John grinned as he wiped at the dried bits of marinara around her mouth.

 

Margaret’s light footfalls came down the stairs.  She had spent her married years trying to make as little noise as possible so as not to upset her husband. 

 

“Mum.” John nodded.

 

“Johnny,” Margaret beamed.  She crossed the room with the intention of kissing his cheek.  John stood at parade rest, Olivia’s legs wrapped around his hip.  He set his jaw.  His cheek twitched. Mrs. Watson stopped short.

 

Harriet shot her brother a look.  Brother and sister had a brief staring contest.  Harry indicated Olivia with a wag of her eyebrows.  John sighed.  He relaxed his stance and leaned his cheek forward.  Harry’s eyes softened as she looked at her mother with a barely perceptible nod of her head.  Margaret got on her toes to kiss him.

 

“I hope you got lots of work done today, Sherlock,” Margaret said conversationally. 

 

Sherlock joined them.  “Yes, thank you.  I’ll need to get into the microfilm archives at MI-5 to prove my theory.  But I think I cracked it.” He winked at his mother-in-law.

 

Mrs. Watson glowed.  Her son may be taking a while to warm up to her, but her son-in-law seemed to like her.  She felt a conspiratorial companionship with him.  He told her things about his work.  He winked at her.  She would email her friends in the WI back in Wales and brag about how her famous son-in-law told her all about the cases before her son blogged about them.  

 

“Have you thought to cross check the birth dates with church records? We did a lovely project with the WI and a local uni where we helped digitize records for all the churches.”

 

Sherlock smiled.  “Most excellent suggestion, Margaret. I’ll get on that.” 

 

She blushed deeply, lowered her head, and collected her purse and knitting bag. 

 

Harriet’s wide, surprised look just caused Sherlock to shrug.  John rolled his eyes.  

 

“Ready, mum?”  Harry grabbed her jacket and scarf from the peg. 

 

Sherlock bent to kiss his mother-in-law on her cheek.  Margaret blushed again.  She waved to John and Olivia.  Harriet ushered her out of the flat. 

 

“She didn’t kiss Olivia goodbye,” Sherlock noted when he heard the downstairs door shut.

 

“Not my gramma.”

 

“What?  Yes she is, silly.”  John leaned back to look his daughter in the eye.  “That’s my mum.  And that makes her your Nana.”

 

“Told you.” Sherlock mumbled.

 

“That’s mature,” John looked exasperated.  “Is that why she called my dad a prat earlier?”

 

“Your dad’s a prat.” Olivia nodded her head firmly.

 

“Okay, first of all, we aren’t going to use that word any more, young lady.  Secondly, we’re going to get Papa to not use naughty words in front of you.  And thirdly, you need a bath.”  He tickled her belly.  Olivia giggled and squirmed. 

 

“How was Lestrade today?”  Sherlock changed the subject.

 

“Usual.  Why?” 

 

“My brother texted me asking me advice on a gift for a third date.”

 

“He’s getting a bit over the top.  Did you tell him gifts are not expected on every date?”

 

“I did tell him a copy of his house key and the code to his alarm isn’t appropriate yet.”

 

***

 

The band was fantastic. Every song was perfect.  The frosted sconces on the wood panel walls created a dreamy glow.  Bespoke suits and tuxedos were worn by every man, of every size.  The ceiling fans spun silently above, occasionally sending a waft of tobacco smoke from the smoking room.  Greg was grateful for the brief lessons the band leader and a dance instructor gave prior to the party starting.  He was also grateful that he was not the only man who needed the instructions.  He did not really need to be concerned.  Mycroft knew every social dance.  His tango was not very elegant, but it was technically proficient.  His waltz left Greg breathless.  

 

_ My ex-wife would be so jealous that I’m taking dance instruction.   _

 

Mycroft led them smoothly around the floor.  His gaze was over Greg’s right shoulder, steering them through the line of dance. Greg was supposed to keep his own chin raised and pointed to the left, gaze somewhere unfocused so he could better pay attention to his partner. But he could not stop himself from looking adoringly at Mycroft.

 

_ I’d never have been willing to take it for her. _

 

Mycroft held his arms rigidly when necessary, his feet and long legs moved with grace.  Greg could not remember much of the lesson. Which was fine.  Mycroft had looked at him with those blue-grey eyes and whispered “Knees soft.  Keep relaxed.  Eyes to me if you feel unsure. Trust me.” 

 

Greg wore his best suit.  Not tailored, but one he saved for funerals and weddings.  The dark grey fabric was soft and had a subtle shimmer.  When Mycroft had gone through his wardrobe to peruse his suits, he held up this one in front of Greg and gave him that just-for-Greg smile.  Mycroft wore navy blue with an immaculate white shirt, simple navy tie and a ruby waistcoat.  He flashed his ankle at Greg to show him the red socks to match.  

 

“The Kiss Waltz” by Strauss ended.  The dancers applauded.  Some took position for the next dance.  Mycroft placed his right hand in the small of Greg’s back, and led him towards the bar. 

 

“Are you having a nice evening, Greg?”  

 

“It’s a bit overwhelming.  But yeah,” he smiled widely.  His smile elicited one from Mycroft.  Greg bit his lip. He looked down at his hands on the highly polished bar.  Mycroft’s pinky traced the lines of his fingers. He thrilled at the touch, and at the freedom he felt at them being in public like this.  Greg looked up again when the bartender set down the two gin and tonics. 

 

“To us,” Mycroft clinked his glass against Greg’s.  

 

Greg blushed.  “Yes. To us.”  He nearly swallowed an ice cube. 

 

“Mycroft!” A man about John’s height with dark ginger hair, a neatly trimmed beard, wearing a royal blue suit clapped Mycroft familiarly on the back.

 

Greg expected him to stiffen.  Instead, Mycroft left his drink on the bar and clasped the man’s hand between both of his. 

 

“Roger! You’re back.  How was Hong Kong?”

 

“Tedious as ever,” he rolled his eyes dramatically.  “But we adopted twins.  Jack didn’t want to come out tonight.  I said to him ‘Why do we pay thousands of pounds a month for the best nannies if we can’t get a date night’.”  Roger’s hazel eyes landed on Greg.  “I don’t believe I know your friend.”  Roger scanned him from head to toe and back again.

 

Greg felt his skin flush. 

 

“Greg Lestrade, this is Roger Dabney.”

 

“Pleased to meet you,” Greg shook the proffered hand.  

 

Roger pulled his hand back and cradled it in his other. “My, what a firm grip you have.”

 

“Congratulations on your children,” he said awkwardly, lifting his drink in a toast.

 

“Roger and Jack have four of them now, I believe.”  Mycroft looked to the ginger who was still cradling his right hand. 

 

“Yes. Yes, that’s right.”

 

An uncomfortable silence between them was filled with a Latin rhythm. 

 

“There you are, darling,”  an Asian man wrapped his arm around Roger’s waist. His black hair was tinged with grey at the temples. He kissed Roger’s beard. “Mycroft!”  He let go of his husband to kiss Holmes’ cheeks.  Mycroft accepted the affection with a sincere smile.

 

“Detective Inspector,” Jack nodded at Greg.

 

“Lord St.Claire,” he nodded back.

 

“Darling, do you know Mycroft’s date?” Roger stopped cradling his hand.

 

“Do you remember a year ago there was an incident at Gemma’s boarding school?  The Met was called in and Detective Inspector Lestrade was on the case.”

 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.  

 

“It was nothing, really,” Lestrade muttered. “One of the girls had gotten upset with her parents divorce and wrote her own kidnapping note.  We found her hiding out in a folly on the school grounds.”

 

“I was in America on business when that happened.” Roger clasped his hands over his heart.  “When I got Jack’s text I thought I was going to die.  Thank you for keeping our children safe, officer.”

 

“Yeah, well, um… all in a day’s work.”  He ran one hand through his perfectly coiffed hair.

 

“He’s not my date.”  Mycroft annunciated every word.

 

The three men turned to him. 

 

“Sorry?”

 

“What?”

 

“Gnnnf?”  Greg felt the polished floor disappear beneath him and swallow him in a burning vacuum of misery.

 

Mycroft’s fingers twining with his dragged him up again.

 

“He is my boyfriend,” he said the words confidently, tenderly.  “We’ve been seeing each other for a bit now and…”

 

Greg couldn’t hear the rest of what Mycroft said.  He had gone from the world swallowing him in a pit of despair to being raised up to angelic heights of joy.  His head spun. He was suddenly being hugged and kissed on his cheeks by Lord St. Claire and his husband.  The men continued to smile and laugh and congratulate.  

 

“Would you look at the time?  Rog, darling, can we please go home?  I want to be up early with the twins.  I don’t want them to think the nanny will be the face they see every night and every morning.”

 

The ginger rolled his eyes.  “Alright.  Let’s go.  Delightful to see you, Mycroft.  And to meet you, Greg.”

 

They disappeared into the crowd.  Greg realized he had been holding Mycroft’s hand tightly. He looked into those grey eyes.  His jaw was slack, still in shock.

 

“Greg?  Gregory?”  Mycroft’s cool fingertips caressed the back of his neck.  “Are you feeling well?”  

 

“I… um…”

 

“Greg?”  Mycroft became concerned.

 

“You.  You said I’m your, um… boyfriend.”

 

“Ah.” Mycroft dropped his hands to his sides.  “I didn’t mean to be presumptuous…” The smile disappeared.  Imminent rejection clouded his blue-grey eyes.

 

Lestrade stopped his talking with his mouth.  His hands cupped the smoothly shaven cheeks.  Greg did not bother to kiss tentatively.  He did not nibble at Mycroft’s bottom lip.  He tipped his head to the right and consumed his boyfriend, licking and pressing.  He sought out the depths of emotion in himself and attempted to transfer them into his kissing.  Words would not be enough.  Greg needed to kiss the smile back into Mycroft’s eyes.

 

When he pulled back, Mycroft’s eyes were wide.

 

Greg straightened his tie and smoothed the front of his shirt.  “It’s more socially acceptable than lover, but it implies the same.” He grinned impishly.  Mycroft’s face relaxed.  “Take your boyfriend home, Mister Holmes.  He’d like to see you out of that suit.”

 

***

 

_ He introduced me as his boyfriend to friends of his. - GL _

 

_ That’s fantastic, mate. What you wanted, right? - JWH _

 

_ I didn’t know it’s what I wanted. But yeah. It’s good. - GL _

 

_ Great.  I’ll  talk to you later.  When, you know, it’s not the middle of the night. - JWH _

 

_ Why are you texting my husband at 1 a.m. when it’s not for a case? - SWH _

 

_ Did I wake you? - GL _

 

_ Believe me, Lestrade, you don’t want to know what you interrupted at 1 a.m. in our flat. - SWH _

 

Greg blushed and pocketed his phone. 

***

 

“Bloody hell, Sherlock,” John chuckled when he saw his last text.  

 

“It will keep him from updating you on his love life at least until after breakfast.”  Sherlock wrapped the shivering, wet figure of Olivia in a thick beige towel. 

 

“Papa, I no feel good.”  She pressed her forehead to Sherlock’s shoulder.  

 

“Let’s get you dry and into some clean jammies, k?” John kissed her burning cheek.  

 

“I threw up, Daddy.” Her exhausted eyes began to close as Sherlock rubbed her back through the towel. 

 

“Oh, I know, love.”  John thought about the bundle of vomit covered sheets and duvet he had rushed downstairs to the laundry they shared with Mrs. Hudson.  

 

***

 

Mycroft slipped his arms around Greg’s waist.  He nuzzled his ear, hot breath sending shivers down Greg’s back.  

 

“Does London sleep securely while you are off duty, Detective Inspector?” He unbuckled Greg’s belt. 

 

“As much as it can, Mister Holmes.”  He leaned into Mycroft’s chest. 

 

“You danced very elegantly this evening.  I was the envy of every man in the club.”  Mycroft untucked Greg’s shirt and slowly unbuttoned it.  “I saw the way Roger was looking at you.  He practically ate you with those beady eyes of his.”

 

“No, did he?” Greg turned in the cage of Mycroft’s arms and loosened his navy tie and the brass buttons on his ruby waistcoat. 

 

“Are you so unaware of how handsome you are?”  Mycroft ran his fingers through the thatch of grey hair on Greg’s chest. 

 

“I’ve done alright with the ladies in the past.  But I never thought men would think I’m attractive.” 

 

Mycroft arched one eyebrow, reached around and squeezed Greg’s firm buttocks.  Greg let out a tiny half squeak of pleased surprise.  “Make a note in your little book, Mister Lestrade. You are handsome,” he tugged at Greg’s bottom lip with his teeth.  “You cut a dashing figure,” he ran his hot mouth down Greg’s neck.  “You are delicious,” he kissed the grey hair on his chest. 

 

“Delicious?” Greg chuckled.

 

“Indeed.”

 

“Shall we move towards the bed to test that statement?”  Greg winked as his trousers fell to his ankles. 

 

“You aren’t wearing pants.”

 

“I’m terribly disappointed in you, Mister Holmes.  Always going on about how much smarter you are than your brother.  How much more observant you are than he is.  And here I was, all night, sans pants. Tsk-tsk.”  He tossed his shirt across the room then walked towards the ornate four poster bed only wearing black socks. 

 

Greg paused at the footboard.  His hand caressed the intricately carved post, his suntanned skin pale next to the umber stained wood.  

 

Mycroft peeled off his jacket, waistcoat and shirt.  He lay them carefully over the back of a chair.  

 

“I’ll catch my death of cold if you don’t come and warm me, Mycroft.”  

 

Mycroft draped his trousers over the shirt.  He slipped his socks off with his toes, leaving them under the chair.  

 

“You aren’t naked.”  Greg stared hungrily at the snug black briefs. 

 

“Lie down prone.” His voice was low and caused a vibration in Greg’s core.

 

Greg climbed into the massive bed and lay on his belly in the center, socked feet resting on his pillow, his face cupped in his hands.  Mycroft moved towards him lithely.  

 

“I am going to lick that smug grin off of your face,”  Mycroft whispered in his ear as he knelt next to him. 

 

“Don’t you want me on my back then?”

 

Mycroft’s firm hands ran up his back.  On the way down, he grabbed Greg’s buttocks, kneading them with his large palms.  Greg moaned.  Mycroft positioned himself between his lover’s legs and lowered himself to his belly.  

 

The heat of Mycroft’s breath on the under curve of his bum caused Greg to shudder with anticipation.  He covered every inch of soft grey fuzz covered skin with his lips and tongue.  Mycroft continued to knead the firm buttocks, separating them.  When he felt his lover relax he leaned forward to blow a gentle stream of breath along his cleft.  

 

“Oh, that tick…”

 

Mycroft licked the puckered opening.  

 

“Fuck.”

 

He tickled it with the tip of his tongue.  Greg’s entire body broke out in goose pimples. Mycroft, not hearing any argument, probed at him.  

 

“Jesus, Myc, is that your tongue?”

 

“Would you prefer a finger?”  He kissed and nipped at the quivering buttocks. 

 

“God no.” 

 

A chuckle rumbled up from his belly.  The vibration traveled through his tongue as he resumed his ministrations. Mycroft penetrated Greg with his tongue.  He flicked it in and out. He made circles around the sensitive circle. Greg arched his back. 

 

“More…” he gasped.

 

Mycroft grinned.  He cupped Greg’s testes and rolled them.  Greg pushed back on to Mycroft’s tongue.  

 

“Fuck me…”

 

“Demanding this evening, aren’t you?”  He pressed his thumb into Greg’s tight hole. “You should be patient.  You should enjoy…”

 

“We did that last night.  I want to know what it feels like to have you inside me.”

 

Mycroft paused.  “Greg, do you know what you are saying?”

 

He turned over, careful not to kick Mycroft as he did.  “It’s one thing we haven’t done yet.  I’m ready.  I want to try.”  His brown eyes were bright with lust.  “I trust you, Mycroft.  Make love to me.”

 

Mycroft’s brain went into overdrive.  This gorgeous Silver Fox was laid out on his bed, wanton and craving him, asking for anal sex… and he used the term ‘make love’.  Love. 

 

Greg saw the turmoil in Mycroft’s unfocused gaze.  _  Damnit, Lestrade. Why did you have to go and fuck up a brilliant thing by calling it making love… idiot! _  Before either of them could speak, or the evening end awkwardly, Greg pulled him on top of him. He kissed Mycroft deeply, gently raking his fingernails on his scalp and down his spine.  Greg had learned early on that the best way to keep Mycroft Holmes focused on his naked body was to gently scratch him.  

 

Mycroft reached between Greg’s legs. He traced circles around Greg’s tight hole, causing Greg to squirm and moan. His fingertip breached the opening, still damp from his tongue.  Greg’s eyes went wide, his abdomen contracted as a lascivious grin spread across his face. Mycroft felt his lover’s body relax and slipped his index finger up the first knuckle.  Greg’s gasp, followed by the shameless look in his eyes, encouraged him. He thrust the tip of  his finger in and out.  Greg fumbled for the small bottle of lube that had rolled around on the quilted duvet.  He reached down to smear himself and Mycroft’s hand.  He shuddered at the cool lubricant on his skin.  Then he drove his hips so Mycroft’s finger slipped in past his second knuckle.  That long digit curled and pressed into his prostate, causing Greg to bark out half words of demand and begging.

 

“Fu… God… More… Jesus… Myc… fuck… more.”

 

Mycroft eased in a second finger.  They both paused while Greg’s body adjusted.  The devilish smirk told Mycroft he was ready.  He found a rhythm.  Greg’s hips bucked and rocked.  Mycroft leaned forward.  He scissored his fingers, slowly, watching every facial expression, listening to every breath his lover took.  Greg draped one leg over his shoulder, pressing him closer.  A fine sheen of sweat glistened on their skin. The puckered opening felt wider.  The moans of pleasure outnumbered the grimaces of discomfort as his body relaxed to the penetration. 

 

“Are you ready for a third?”  Mycroft’s voice rumbled with dark delight. 

 

“Yes,” he groaned.  

 

Mycroft’s pants were unbearably snug now.  He wished he had removed them earlier, before this handsome specimen of masculinity was writhing and begging him to fuck him.  Before this gorgeous man asked him to make love to him. 

 

“Oh, Mycroft…”

 

Greg’s voice brought him out of his head and back to the fathomless chocolate eyes that kept gaze with him.  

 

“I think I’m ready.  I want you.”  

 

Mycroft inelegantly scrambled to shuck his pants.  He tore the condom packet with his teeth and rolled it over his cock.  He got between Greg’s thighs.  He slipped his three fingers in again.  

 

“Greg,” he stared into his eyes.  “I’ll go slowly. Let me know if I’m too much for you.  I don’t want to hurt you.”

 

Lestrade raised his hips and slid his feet over Mycroft’s shoulders.  

 

They kept their eyes locked.  Greg panted, his eyes wide. Mycroft wanted to shut his eyes and get lost in the feeling of being inside this gorgeous man. Even with his careful ministrations, the opening was snug.  The heat of him was intoxicating. Time was suspended.  The moment of penetration was lasting forever, but it would not be long enough.  The urge to thrust, to bottom out, was overwhelming. The look of absolute trust in his lover’s eyes kept Mycroft from forcing his way inside. They moved slowly, searching together with each thrust for depth and rhythm.  Mycroft just let the tip of his cock breach him. Greg rocked his hips, demanding more.  Mycroft leaned on his right forearm, his left hand around Greg’s cock.  He fisted the shaft as he thrust, matching the rhythm.  He felt Greg’s body tense.  His cock pulsed in his hand.  Unlike every encounter they had had previously, Greg could not utter a proper word.  He grunted, his expression open and raw.  Most of it ended up in Mycroft’s hand.  He was so distracted by the look on Greg’s face that the thrust that finished him, took him by surprise.  Mycroft collapsed beside him, sweaty, panting, left hand sticky. 

 

When their respirations returned to normal, Mycroft got up to fetch wet flannels.  They cleaned each other with reverence.  Mycroft pulled on a pair of striped pajama bottoms and handed Greg a pair of Met issued shorts he had left for sleeping in.  Mycroft held Greg to his chest in the darkness.  He stroked his bare arm.  He replayed every kiss, every touch, every word in his mind, cataloging them and smiling to himself.  His reverie was interrupted when Greg shifted slightly and said “I love you.” Mycroft pressed his lips to Greg’s forehead.  Greg sighed happily.  Mycroft stared at the ceiling.

 

***

 

Mycroft sat, feet flat on the floor, fingers steepled under his chin.  He was facing the portrait of the Queen, but not looking at her.  The only sound in his office was the hum of technology.  

 

He stared at the phone on his thigh.  He had picked it up and put it down seventeen times in the last thirty-seven minutes.  

 

He hit the home button and opened the text app. 

 

_ Sorry I had to dash off so early this morning. Criminals have no courtesy for the lives of others. :) See you later? Love you. - G _

 

“Mycroft?”  Lady Smallwood walked into his office.

 

“Hmmm?”  

 

“Mycroft, is there something wrong?  I’ve been calling you all morning.”  She tapped her foot.

 

He stared at the phone screen as it went dark.

 

“Are you going to turn around?” she snapped.

 

Mycroft adjusted the knot of his tie, smoothed the front of his suit, pocketed his phone and slowly turned his chair.  “What is it, Alicia?”  He raised his chin haughtily.  That only served to show more of his bloodshot eyes.

 

“You look like hell.”

 

Mycroft rubbed his lips together.  He sighed and dropped his chin.  The corner of his mouth twitched. 

 

Lady Smallwood sat down.  “Jesus, Mycroft, what’s happened?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

“When did you become a bad liar?”  The silence was heavy.  “You’re showing emotion. Is everything alright with Sherlock?  Your niece?”

 

“Yes, fine.  Fine.”  He traced circles on his desk with his index finger.  

 

He looked up.  The concern on her face made his stomach roil.  “Is there something I can help you with, or did you come here to gawk at me?”

 

She exhaled loudly, pressed her lips into a grimace of disgust and rose gracefully.  “It can wait.” 

 

She let the door close loudly behind her. 

 

Mycroft took the phone from his pocket.  His chest was tight.  His insides fluttered.  He mentally ran down the checklists for signs of a heart attack, food poisoning and gastrointestinal distress.  Nothing.  He sighed.  Whatever was causing these physical symptoms had to be emotional.  He unlocked the screen. 

 

_ I do not think it is wise for us to continue seeing one another.  Please do not contact me further. Apologies in advance if this causes you distress.  - MH _

 

He hit send.

 

A tear slid down his cheek.

 

***

 

Greg threw his phone across his office.  The noise caught the attention of every officer in the outer room.  Anderson, Miller and Sharma all exchanged looks.  

 

What the hell was that text about?  Last night had been perfect.  The dancing, meeting his friends, being introduced as his boyfriend, the sex… what had gone wrong? And why wouldn’t that prat answer any of his texts or calls?  

 

The phone buzzed.  He nearly fell of his chair as he dove to retrieve it. Unknown number.

 

“D.I. Lestrade, this is Anthea.”  

 

“Anthea, thank god.  Listen, can you…”

 

“My employer has asked me to tell you to stop trying to contact him.  He said he made himself clear in his message this morning. If you persist in trying to contact him, he will take steps.  Ta.”

 

The line went dead. 

 

Greg threw the phone again. 

 

His office door opened. 

 

“Not now,” he barked.

 

“Watch how many bollocking fucks I give, Lestrade.”  Miller said casually as he took a seat. 

 

Greg put his head on his desk. 

 

“I’m not going to ask what’s going on.  I’m going to tell you that for the last five weeks it’s been obvious to us all that you’ve been a lot fucking happier than any of us have ever seen you.  We figure you’ve been seeing someone.  And it’s obvious from your phone throwing that there is now trouble in paradise.”

 

Greg, forehead still pressed to his desk, gave Miller the middle finger.

 

Miller chuckled.  “Fair enough. Footie practice for the Yard’s over forty league is at seven.  We run a few drills, kick the ball a bit, sweat out the drama, then get pissed. I’ll see you then.”

When Greg raised his head again, Miller was gone.  His phone, miraculously not cracked, was laying on his desk.  

  
  


***

 

_ How was the dancing? - JWH _

 

_ Fine. - MH _

 

_ Haven’t heard from you in a while.- JWH _

 

_ Protecting the realm is a full time job, brother-in-law. I can’t always stop by for tea.- MH _

  
  


***

_ Haven’t seen you in a week.  Meet for a pint? - JWH _

 

_ Yeah. After practice. - GL _

 

_ Practice? - JWH _

 

_ I joined the Yard’s over 40 football club. - GL _

 

“What’s wrong?”  Sherlock looked up from the book he was reading to Olivia.

 

“Greg joined the over forty football club.”

 

“So?”

 

“I think something is wrong with him and Mycroft.”

  
  


***

Barry and Molly stood on the pavement outside Bart’s.  They sky above was dark blue and a few stars shone boldly through the light pollution of the city. The early February evening was unseasonably warm.  They laughed as they held steaming paper cups.  

 

“Thanks for coming to see me on my break.”

 

Barry kissed her cheek.  “I’m glad I did. I’ll see you at home later.”  

 

As he turned he said “Isn’t that Greg on that stretcher?”

 

***

 

“Hey, Molly!” he tried to sound chipper.  

 

“Greg.” She had her arms crossed as studied the muck covered man on the stretcher. His hoodie was splattered with mud and drenched with sweat.  One sleeve was torn.  His shorts were either brown or he had been immersed in a puddle.  His normally neatly groomed grey hair was spiked with bits of turf.  His ankle had already been wrapped.  It was a quiet night in Casualty.  A drunk with a minor head wound was snoring in the cubicle nearby.

 

“Nice weather we’re having, eh?”  He tried to smile as he shifted the splinted ankle to a more comfortable position.

 

“What were you doing?  You are an absolute mess.”

 

“Football with the lads.”

 

“At your age?”

 

Greg blushed.  “It’s the over forties.”

 

Molly bent over his ankle.  She caught a whiff of his breath. “My God, Greg.  You’re drunk.”

 

He looked up at the ceiling.  “Um.  Yeah. A bit.”

 

“What the hell is going on?  John said you haven’t called or texted in a week.  Olivia asked me the other day where you were.”  She tipped his chin up to see his face better in the light. “You smell like an ashtray in a pub.”

 

Hot tears cleared streaks through the dirt on his face.

 

Molly sat on the stretcher next to him. Greg leaned into her white coat and began to sob. She tentatively put her arms around his damp back.  The touch made him cry harder.  She was glad she had an extra lab coat in her office. Her shoulder and sleeve were grey from the contact. He sniffed and sat back.  Molly pulled tissues from her pocket.  He blew his nose loudly.  

 

“Want some water?”  She rubbed his arm.

 

“Mycroft broke up with me.”

 

Molly froze.  Out of all the things she imagined could drive him to this state, that was not on her mental list. 

 

_ Everything okay with Greg? -B _

 

_ He’ll live. He’s drunk and he’s got a nasty sprained ankle.  - M _

 

_ What happened? - B _

 

_ Drunk football with the lads because Mycroft broke up with him. - M _

 

_ Oh, I can’t wait for you to get home to tell me the story. Love you <3 - B _

 

_ John, Greg’s in Casualty. - M _

 

_ WHAT? WHY? - JWH _

 

_ He’s pissed and he sprained his ankle playing football. He won’t stop crying. I have another 4 hours on my shift.  Can you come bring him home? - M _

 

_ On my way. - JWH _

***

Mycroft took a drag off his cigarette.  He placed his glass on the table.  The record on the turntable spun at thirty-three RPM.  He gingerly lifted the arm and placed the needle in the groove.  He lifted his glass again, ice clinked gently together. 

 

_ I remember all my life raining down as cold as ice, shadows of a man, face through a window, crying in the night.  _ _ The night goes into morning, just another day happy people pass my way looking in their eyes I see a memory I never realized how happy you made me, oh Mandy... _

 

He tossed the ice into the bucket.  He poured two fingers of neat scotch and downed them in one gulp. He reveled in the burn.  It was a feeling that wasn’t an emotion.  He could wrap his brain around that sensation. Peaty, fruity, slightly gingery.  He understood flavours. 

 

Nine days. Nine nights.  He looked at his half smoked cigarette before extinguishing it in disgust. Nine sleepless nights. Laying in the dark, the silence of the night oppressive like a muggy summer fog, making it difficult to breathe and get comfortable.  The February nights were unseasonably warm.  The shipping forecast said snow would be moving through in the next week. 

 

The pit in his stomach refused to go away.  He was not hungry.  He was not ill.  This was a sensation he could not comprehend. The ache in his chest was not a heart attack.  He saw his GP.  He took his aspirin. Why did everything inside hurt?

 

_ I'm standing on the edge of time I walked away when love was mine caught up in a world of uphill climbing the tears are in my eyes and nothing is rhyming, oh Mandy... _

 

His phone lit up.  He glanced down at the screen. 

 

_ John just went to Bart’s to pick up  Greg.  He’s drunk and has a sprained ankle.  I don’t know what you are up to, brother mine, but sort it out.  I can’t have the best D.I. in London incapacitated because of a lover’s quarrel. - SWH _

 

The pain in his chest increased.  He felt his pectoral muscles contract towards his sternum.  He let out a strangled noise that surprised himself.  A single tear slid down his right cheek.

 

_ To be fair, second best D.I. in London.  Miller is pretty good. - SWH _

 

Mycroft chuckled as he reached for his handkerchief.

 

***

 

John stripped off his soaked jeans and shirt. He toweled some of the damp off his skin.  Sherlock tossed him a dry tee shirt from the wardrobe.  

 

“I’ve never had to bathe a drunk adult with a sprained ankle.  Olivia at her worst is easier.”

 

Sherlock tossed a pair of soft pajama bottoms across the bed and pulled on a pair of his own.   “Lestrade has always been the one saving me from dirty drug binges.  I never thought I’d be on the other end of things.”

 

“Did Olivia go down alright?”  John toweled off his hair a bit more. 

 

“She made me sing ‘Misty Mountains’ from that film you both love. And we read a book about American astronaut Sally Ride.”

 

John chuckled.  “She loves singing dwarves.”

 

“No, not all of them.  Molly brought over Snow White yesterday and Olivia told the dwarves off for not having proper beards.”

 

John shook his head, smiling, as he pulled a spare pillow and a blanket from the wardrobe. “Let’s go tuck in our guest, shall we?”

 

Greg sat on the couch, ankle propped on a pile of throw pillows. He wore a pair of John’s track suit bottoms and a faded band tee shirt.  Chin tucked to his chest, he looked beaten and exhausted. 

 

Sherlock busied himself in the kitchen with the kettle and toaster.  John sat on the coffee table.

 

“Hey, mate, how are you feeling?”

 

Greg shrugged his shoulders. “Humiliated that two grown men just struggled to give me a shower because I’m too drunk and injured to do it myself.”

 

“That’s what friends are for.  I haven’t heard from you in nine days.  Want to tell me what’s going on?”

 

“Mycroft dumped me over text.”  He stared at his ankle.  If he didn’t think about the words again, if he just stared at his air cast, he could prevent the tears.

 

“Jesus.  What happened?”

 

“We went dancing that Saturday night after I saw you.  This men’s club. Gay men.  We danced.  I learned how to waltz.  We had such a nice time.  He introduced me to friends of his as his boyfriend.”

 

John smiled. “I remember your text.”

 

“We went back to his house.  It was like every other night we’ve spent together.  Only, this time… this time…” he began to sob.  

 

John reached out to rub his back.

 

“This time I told him I was  _ ready _ .”

 

“Ready.” John repeated.

 

“Anal sex,” Greg nodded.

 

A floorboard creaked. John looked over his shoulder.  Sherlock stood in the doorway with a mug of tea and a plate of toast.  He grimaced and walked backwards into the kitchen.

 

“Ah. That can be a big step.”

 

“He was so gentle,” Greg wept.  “He was careful with me.  It was perfect. And I told him… I told him…” his body began to shake with crying. “I told him I love him.”

 

The sound of a plate falling on the floor made John jump.  “Damnit,” Sherlock whispered.  Doors opened while he searched for a dust pan.  The broken pieces knocked together as he dropped them into the bin. The plastic bread bag rustled, the button on the toaster clicked.  He placed a plate carefully on the counter.

 

John rubbed Greg’s back in circles and made shushing sounds.  

 

“I got called to a domestic that spilled out into the street and neighbours were assaulting each other.  I had to leave early in the morning.  I texted him that I hoped I’d see him later.  I was having a good day at work.  Arrested bad guys, did paperwork. And then he dumped me  _ by text _ .”

 

“Did you try to call him?”

 

“Of course I did.  He didn’t answer my calls or my texts.  Finally Anthea called me and told me not to attempt to contact him or he’d  _ take steps _ . What the  _ hell _ , John?”

 

The toast popped up.  Sherlock tried to butter it as quietly as possible.  

 

“So you decided to play football and get pissed?”

 

“Pretty much.  Yeah.  Miller saw me throwing my phone around my office. He just walked in and told me what time the over forties football club met.  I didn’t have any other plans.”

 

“Is that what you’ve been doing every night since?”

 

“No.  Football is only Sunday and Tuesday. The other nights I’ve been working or drinking.”

 

“Jesus, Greg, why didn’t you call me?”  The floorboard creaked. John looked over shoulder and nodded.  Sherlock walked in with the now cold tea and fresh toast.  He sat beside John on the coffee table  and placed the plate in Greg’s lap.  

 

“I didn’t want to talk to anyone.”  Greg picked at the toast.  

 

“Greg,” Sherlock cleared his throat.  “Is Mycroft the first man you ever dated?”

 

His bottom lip quivered. He nodded.

 

“Had you thought about dating men before our wedding?”  Sherlock’s deep voice was soft.

 

Greg shook his head. 

 

“So, out of the blue you took a chance on a new situation.  And it worked.  For a bit.”

 

John shot him a dirty look.  Sherlock held up a hand.  

 

“I don’t feel like a gay man,” Greg whispered.  

 

“Of course not. You feel like a man who was attracted to someone he isn’t usually attracted to, and through companionship and mutual interests, you developed an emotional attachment.”

 

John smiled at his husband.  He reached out to squeeze Sherlock’s knee.

 

“I told you on my wedding day that love is love is love.  Do you remember?”  

 

Greg nodded.

 

“I don’t know what it feels like to be a gay man, Lestrade.  But I have always known I have not been attracted to women.  And I know I have only ever been attracted to a few men.  I’ve snogged a few of each.  And finally one decided he liked me enough to tolerate me until we get old and forget how to urinate in the pot.”

 

John sniggered.  Greg coughed a half laugh. 

 

“Everyone knows my brother is a prat.  The Holmes brothers aren’t known for being -”

 

“Human,” John interrupted.

 

“Indeed,” Sherlock conceded.

 

“And Mycroft is a total wanker,” John added.

 

Sherlock gave him the side eye, but nodded in agreement.  “You aren’t defined by who you love.  You are defined by how well you love.”

 

“That was beautiful,” John whispered as he leaned in to kiss his husband.

 

“Eat your toast and drink your tea,” John patted Greg’s shoulder.  “I’ll get you some water and paracetamol.  Then sleep.  Doctor’s orders.”

 

Greg grabbed John’s hand.  “Thank you.”

 

“We’re family. It’s what we do.”  John squeezed his hand. 

 

***

 

“What do you mean you broke up with him?”  John walked into the sitting room with Olivia on his hip, mug of tea in his hand.  

 

Mycroft sighed as he accepted the tea.  

 

“You bloody idiot.  Tell me what happened.”

 

“Bloody idiot,” Olivia echoed.  

 

Mycroft stared into his drink.  “The mutual attraction the Detective Inspector and I shared became … complicated.”

 

“Complicated?”  John’s voice rose. He paced the room with Olivia on his hip. 

 

“Complicated.” She stated, scowling at her uncle.  

 

“He developed a level of affection for me I was not prepared for.”

 

“You mean he fell in love with you.”

 

“I think so.”

 

“And you, Mycroft?  Did you break my friend’s heart because you got scared that maybe you had some human emotions somewhere under that buttoned up exterior?”  

 

“It was an unexpected…”

 

“Jesus, Mycroft!  You and Greg fell in love so you broke up with him?” John shouted. 

 

“Uncle Myc loves Uncle Greg!” Olivia shouted.  John looked at her quizzically.  She quickly put her graham cracker in her mouth.  John placed her on the floor.  

 

“Having feelings is not an asset.  It’s a weakness that I cannot afford in my position.”

 

John slumped in his chair.  He crossed his left ankle over his right knee.  He folded his hands together. He spoke calmly.  “You’re in love and it terrifies you.  You realized you’re human and you can’t cope with that.”  

 

Mycroft flushed and placed his tea on the table. 

 

“You fell in love with one of the best men I’ve ever known. You turned his life upside down.  You totally changed his expectations of romance and partnership.  Then you freaked out because you finally learned what it is to be a bloody human being.” 

 

“John,” he said quietly. “It isn’t that easy.”

 

“Do you understand what it means to a person who goes through over forty years of life on this planet thinking they are straight, to then one day realize ‘um, not so much?’  Hmm?  It’s terrifying, Mycroft.  Realizing you aren’t who you thought you were is bloody  _ terrifying _ .  Greg took a huge chance on you.  He is risking a hell of a lot.  He’s already having issues getting his ex-wife to let him see the kids.  He’s a cop.  He’s not out of the closet yet.  Can you please imagine, even in this day and age, the sort of prejudice he may have in the workplace for being a gay man?  Yet, for reasons I honestly can’t figure out, he was willing to risk it for _ you _ .”

 

“It’s complicated…”

 

“That’s right.  It bloody well is.  My friend is living on cigarettes and coffee, trying not to slip down the black hole of alcoholism as he tries to figure out what he did wrong.  And you, you  _ git _ , were ready to give him the key and passcode to your house. And you called him your boyfriend in public.  Which is next level relationship stuff. Then suddenly not any more?” 

 

“Git,” Olivia mumbled through her cracker as she stacked blocks.  

 

“I’ve spent my life believing caring is a disadvantage.  I’ve railed against attachment.”

 

John looked at his brother-in-law’s defeated face. 

 

“Then you saw how happy Sherlock and I are?  Hmm?”  His voice was kind.  “Then you saw love, partnership, companionship in action right in front of you.  Every day.  Your little brother still clever, still solving crimes, still wanting to be a pirate, but also with a family. You see it work every time you come here.  And on the night of my wedding, you took a chance that maybe - just maybe - you could find some of that for yourself.”

 

Mycroft folded his hands in his lap, his head bowed. 

 

“You did. You found it.  Now stop being such a daft bastard and go get the man you love.”

 

Olivia walked over to her uncle.  She placed her little hands over his folded ones.  Eyes full of tears, Mycroft looked up.  Olivia patted him.  

 

“S’okay, Uncle Myc.  Go kiss Uncle Greg.  I need to potty.”  She dashed off to the loo.

 

John shrugged.  “Out of the mouths of babes.  Also, excuse me.  She hasn’t quite mastered how much toilet roll is actually needed.”

 

***

 

Sherlock and Olivia walked into the toddler yoga class in matching black tracksuit bottoms and purple tie-dyed tee shirts.  After the Chakra Serial Killer case, Sherlock found he enjoyed the practice.  It cleared his mind, albeit briefly, and he felt renewed when he got back to work.  

 

“Sherlock?”  

 

“Jack,” he shook the proffered hand.  A habit he was forced to learn from his husband.  If a hand is extended and there is no weapon in it, you must shake it.  

 

“Is this your daughter?”  The Asian man dropped to his haunches. 

 

“Yes, this is Olivia Watson-Holmes. Olivia, this is Lord Jackson St. Claire.”  

 

Olivia extended her hand.  Jack smiled and kissed the back of it.  Olivia scowled.  “You shake, no kiss.”  

 

“Ah, raising a modern woman and not a little lady, I see.” Jack stood again. 

 

“Mycroft said you and Roger adopted twins recently.”

 

“Yes.  Sophie and Pearl.”  He pointed to his ginger husband in the corner with three small children.  One girl about the same age as Olivia, and infant twins in car seats.  

 

The instructor chimed a singing bowl, calling the class to order.  Sherlock laid out his mat and sat in lotus position with Olivia in front of him.  

 

After class John waited for them in the lobby.  

 

“Doctor Watson, I presume,” Jack approached John. He wore a sleeping infant in a sling. 

 

John smiled and shook his hand.  “Yeah.  Watson-Holmes now.  Have we met?”

 

“Jack St. Claire.  I’m a friend of Mycroft’s.”

 

“Ah. Nice to meet you.”

 

Sherlock walked out of class with Olivia on his shoulders.  He was rolling his eyes as a shorter, ginger bearded man with a dark haired infant in a sling on his chest, and a Chinese toddler walked beside him.

 

“We  _ must _ arrange a playdate for Mia and Olivia.  It would be  _ darling _ !  Jack’s mother gave Mia a tea set that her grandmother in Hong Kong had given her as a girl.  Oh, it would be such a photo op for their baby books!”

 

John was afraid Sherlock would dislodge a cornea the way he was rolling his eyes. 

 

“John,” Jack placed a hand on his arm.  He dropped his voice and leaned closer.  “Something happened to Mycroft and his lovely detective.  He’s not been the same and he won’t talk about it.  Can you…?” 

 

John nodded.  “I’m trying.”

 

Jack smiled and squeezed John’s arm.  “I have known Mycroft since boarding school.  I have never seen him as happy as when he was with that silver fox.  He was… better… as a person.”

 

John nodded.

 

“Are we running late for something?” Sherlock half pleaded, half demanded as he stood in front of John. The bearded ginger was still going on about tea parties. 

 

“Yeah we are.  Pleasure to meet you, Jack.” 

 

Once safely inside a cab, Olivia reached for her water bottle in her yoga bag.  Sherlock slumped in the seat.  “Ugh, that man.”

 

“Jack was nice.  Who are they?”

 

“Lord Jackson St. Claire and his husband Roger Dabney.”

 

John raised an eyebrow. 

 

“Jack’s father, Abernathy St. Claire was a diplomat. Foreign office.  Hong Kong post.” Sherlock waved a hand.  “He married a local girl while he was posted there.  Opera singer, I think.  They wanted Jack raised like an Englishman, so he ended up here and went to school with Mycroft.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“His husband, Roger, is some sort of software designer.  They have four daughters.  The eldest, Gemma, was a lab experiment with Roger’s DNA and some egg donor…”

 

“You mean a surrogate,” John corrected.

 

“She’s in school.  The youngest three they adopted from Hong Kong.”

 

They rode in silence to Baker Street. 

 

“What did Jack say to you?” Sherlock stood on the pavement, Olivia in one hand, bags and mat in the other.  

 

John unlocked the door.  “He said Mycroft was better when he was with Greg.”

 

“It’s a day of the week.”

 

“Pardon?” 

 

“Sorry. I thought we were stating the obvious.”

 

***

Mycroft’s hands were folded on his desk.  He listened to Lady Smallwood as she read from a report on her tablet. His phone lay nearby. The screen flared to light  _ John Watson-Holmes sent a photo _ .  He swallowed.  John did not normally send photo texts.  

 

Alicia noticed the screen light.  She looked to the phone, then to Mycroft.  Mycroft’s face was set in his usual grin of forced pleasantry.  Not averting his gaze from hers, he flipped his phone over.  

 

“So the Chancellor has legitimate concerns regarding the new  _ regime _ across the pond.  Don’t we all, Lady Smallwood?” He purred haughtily.

 

She refrained from rolling her eyes.  “Will you authorize the surveillance she requested?”

 

“Of course.  Just because Theresa is struggling with article fifty doesn’t mean we have to sever our well established friendship.”

 

Lady Smallwood nodded slightly, closed her tablet.  “Are you well, Mycroft?  You seem a bit off still.”

 

“Yes.   Thank you for your concern.  My GP says I am in a perfect state of health.  Just working on a few dietary changes.  I’ll be back to my charming, reptilian self in a few days.”

 

She smirked.  “Glad to hear it.”  She shut the door quietly behind her. 

 

Mycroft turned the phone over and opened the text.  It was a photo from the wedding of him and Greg.  They were standing at the bar with Portia.  Her back was to the camera, her long snowy hair a cascade of curls down her back.  Greg was in profile, looking at Mycroft.  Mycroft was smiling a genuine smile, tongue touching his lower lip, as he was looking at Greg.

 

_ John Watson-Holmes sent a photo. _

 

This one was of Mycroft and Greg dancing.  This was taken after John and Sherlock had gone up for the night.  Mycroft remembered the George Michael song.  His hands recalled the textures of Greg’s Prince Charlie jacket and his kilt.  His thigh remembered the pressure that was not Greg’s sporran.  He closed his eyes.  The tightness in his chest returned.

 

_ Portia sent me the second one.  I thought you needed a reminder. - JWH _

 

Mycroft’s thumb hovered over the keyboard. 

 

_ Olivia asked if you kissed Uncle Greg yet.  - JWH _

 

Mycroft’s insides twisted.

 

_ Get on it, brother in law.  Today is Valentine’s. - JWH _

 

_ BTW, Valentine’s is as day to celebrate love.  Don’t force me to make a slide show. - JWH _

 

He adjusted the knot of his tie.  He swallowed uneasily.  Before his brother’s wedding Mycroft’s life had been full of work and the pride at knowing he did it well.  He enjoyed his library of noir films, and pretended to dislike it when his parents came to the city and demand he take them to shows. Granted, it was his mother’s company he railed against, not the theatre. But his nights were quiet.  In the weeks that followed the wedding his life became vibrant.  There were scents and flavours, sounds and sensations that made him feel properly alive.  The scent of a more piney men’s deodorant.  The taste of chips from an all night food truck.  The sound of light snoring on the pillow beside him.  The touch of a hand that made his heart thrill and stomach flutter and the corners of his mouth curve upwards.  

 

_ John Watson-Holmes sent a photo. _

 

It was a drawing, clearly by Olivia, of a grey-haired man in a grey suit dragging what appeared to be a bloodied up criminal in handcuffs.  The grey-haired man was smiling at a very tall stick figure with an umbrella.  

 

_ This is what happens when your brother tells our daughter to draw what she observes. SORT IT OUT. - JWH _

 

Mycroft sent off a text.  The reply came back quickly.  He smiled. Through a veil of tears he texted John.

 

_ Will you be at your usual pub with Greg on Thursday evening? - MH _

 

_ I can be. - JWH _

 

_ Please do. - MH _

 

***

 

Greg and John stood on the pavement outside the pub. A light snow had begun to fall.  

 

“Weird weather after that warm spell. Ah well, global warming at it’s finest.” John said as he zipped his jacket to the top and then stuffed his hands in his pockets. 

 

A black sedan pulled up to the curb.  The rear window went down.  They both bent down to peer inside.

 

John waved his fingers.  “Hi Anthea.”

 

“Dr. Watson,” she nodded.  

 

They stood up and exchanged shrugs.  Greg felt his heart racing. His stomach began to turn.

 

“Um, Detective Inspector?”  Anthea leaned closer to the open window.  “It’s cold out.  Do you mind getting in so we can put the window back up?”

 

John gave his crooked smirk and patted Greg on the shoulder.  Greg looked panicked.

 

“Did you know about this?”

 

“Nope.  But I’m sure it’ll be fine.  Go on,” hand on his shoulder, John guided Greg towards the car. “Text me later.”

 

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”  Greg rubbed his cold hands on his trousers.  

 

“Um, no.”  Anthea furiously typed on her phone.

 

“Of course.”

 

They rode in silence.  Greg alternately rubbed his palms on his knees, then through his hair.  His insides did somersaults.  His heart rose and fell.  

 

The car stopped.  Greg opened the door.  “Kew?  The Royal Botanic Gardens?”

 

Anthea looked up from her phone.  She craned her neck to peer out the open car door.  “Yes,” she replied matter of factly.

 

“So, where am I supposed to go?”

 

Anthea smiled as Greg’s phone buzzed.

 

He sighed and got out of the car.  The sedan drove off.  Greg checked his phone.  A text from Mycroft that just said   _ Queen Charlotte’s Cottage. Less than three. _

 

Queen Charlotte’s Cottage was closed in winter.  But this was Mycroft Holmes.  Greg was sure if he didn’t pull strings, he manipulated them all.  What did less than three mean?  Sodding mysterious Holmes family.

 

Snow lazily fell in large soft flakes. The gardens were lit with pink, white and red lights.  Valentine’s had been that past week. Greg swallowed nervously.  Another text.

 

_ Follow the outer lane from the Lion Gate to the cottage.   _

 

Greg rolled his eyes.  In his career he had chased more perps through the Kew than he’d care to remember.  He could walk the garden paths here without a map.  He shook the snow from his hair and walked on, ankle twinging as he went.

 

He left the main lane and turned down the path that in warmer weather wound through a bluebell meadow.  The brown and green lawn was blue-white under the accumulating snow and security lights.  The cottage windows were all dark but one.  Greg, shoes now wet, headed towards the door.  

 

_ Dining Room. _

 

Not that it wasn’t obvious.  Greg presumed he should follow the sounds of a crackling fire and Barry Manilow singing “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.”

 

The room was large and pale.  The rosette in the center of the white ceiling danced in candlelight. The white floor was mostly covered in a brightly coloured silk rug.  The dining table, normally set for six when the cottage was open for tourists, was set for two.  A bottle of Macallen and two tumblers, a plate of fish and chips, and bottles of vinegar and HP were set at the far end of the table. A fire crackled under the marble mantle.  Greg shook snow from his hair.  He was alone. 

 

The song changed. 

 

_ Just remember I'm in love with you.  Just remember that you love me too _

 

_ We'd be foolish letting troubles come between us.  We'd be foolish when we know we love each other so _

 

_ Just remember love is give and take.  Smile at each mistake for the other's sake _

 

_ Hope I never make you blue but if I ever do just remember that I love you _

 

Mycroft appeared in the door at the far end of the room.  

 

“I don’t think I told you my favorite singer is Barry Manilow.”

 

Greg choked something between a laugh and sob.  Hot tears streamed down cheeks that were pink with cold.

 

“I’ve missed you, Greg.”

 

It was like a punch to his solar plexus.  Greg gagged.  He could not stop the tears.  He nearly doubled over crying. 

 

“I’d like you to forgive me.”  Mycroft stayed in the shadow of the doorway.  Greg wrapped his arms around his stomach. He felt the beer he had with John start to come back up. “Please.”

 

Greg’s cheeks were wet. He forced his body to not throw up.  He stood, arms at his sides.  

 

“Why?” he choked. 

 

“I was scared, Greg.  A lifetime spent looking at human attachment, affection, as a detriment. I was frightened at how easily I succumbed to the mixture of hormones and need for touch and companionship.  I looked at my life with you and it was different.  Vibrant.  Full of colour and sound and emotion.  And it terrified me.”

 

Greg hiccuped and ran his sleeve under his snotty nose.

 

“And when you weren’t there, my life was dull and sad and lonely.  And our niece called me a git.”

 

Greg barked a laugh through his tears.  “She’s smarter than both of her fathers.”

 

“And her uncle.  Well, this one anyway.”

 

Greg grinned as he rubbed his eyes with his palms. 

 

Mycroft, hands in his trouser pockets, strolled towards him.  “I’ve never been in love before, Greg.  I went to my GP because I thought I was having a heart attack.  That is how foreign emotions are to me.”  He stopped a few feet from Greg.  “Can you forgive me for being stupid enough for not knowing the difference between a heart attack and a broken heart?”  He reached his left hand out. 

 

Greg stared at his hand. “I want to. But I don’t know if I can.”

 

Mycroft sniffed and retracted his hand.  Greg looked up to see a tear roll down his cheek.

 

“What does ‘less than three’ mean?”  

 

Mycroft smiled through his tears.  He raised his chin and inhaled deeply.  “My brother-in-law informed me it is text shorthand for a heart.”

 

“What?”  

 

Mycroft pulled out his phone, typed two buttons and send.  Greg’s phone buzzed

 

_ <3 _

 

“Oh.”

 

“I love you, Greg.”

 

His brown eyes were bloodshot and puffy.  He was cold and wet through with snow.  His silver hair was dark grey with damp.  With quivering lips, he reached out with his hand, pinky extended.  

 

“If I say it again, do you promise not to push me away?”  his hand shook.

 

“Yes,” Mycroft’s voice quavvered. 

 

“If I say it again, will you hold me until all my broken pieces are put back together?”

 

“I would consider it my duty and an honour to do so.” Mycroft extended a hand, his index finger hooked on Greg’s pinky.

 

Greg’s breath hitched at the touch.  He gulped some of the wax scented air.  “I have children that my ex-wife took with her when she went to Cornwall with her PE teacher boyfriend.”

 

“I am sure you miss them.  And I’d like to help you get to see them.”  

 

Greg slipped his hand fully into Mycroft’s.  He nodded.

 

_ Candles burning, glasses are chilled and soon she’ll be by. Hope and pray she’ll say that she’s willing to give us another try… and if all those plans I made don’t melt the lady’s heart, I’ll put on the old forty-fives… _

 

Greg smiled.  “I like Barry Manilow, too.”

 

Mycroft exhaled a half chuckle. 

 

“I love you, Mycroft.”

 

Mycroft pulled him close. They pressed their foreheads together.  Hands rested on hips.  

 

“I believe this is what is called a Red Letter Day,” Mycroft whispered.

 

“A what?”

 

“Work, position, accolades don’t matter unless you have someone you love say they love you too.”

 

Greg tilted his head and pressed his tear flavoured lips to his.  Mycroft’s mouth quivered.  They inhaled one another.  Mycroft wrapped his arms around Greg’s waist, holding him close. 

 

***

Olivia stood at her little desk in her room. Her blue cardigan mostly covered her galaxy print leggings. Her blonde curls were pushed off her face with a sparkly headband.  She wore a pair of Sherlock’s goggles.  Bits of her chemistry set, a plastic tea pot with cold tea, a sippy cup of milk and a plate of biscuits were arranged before her.  Harriet and Margaret Holmes stood on either side of her.

 

“Apron, Nana.”  She commanded.

 

Margaret slipped the floral apron over her head and tied it around her waist. 

 

“Sugar, Auntie.”  She looked sternly at Harriet. 

 

Harry bit her lips, trying not to laugh.  

 

Olivia placed on sugar cube in each of the three test tubes.  She wiped her fingers on her apron and muttered “Oooo, hot.”

 

Margaret and Harry snickered.  

 

“Ssssh!  Is delicate.”  

 

Tears filled Harry’s eyes while she suppressed a laugh.  She had to step behind Olivia so she didn’t get yelled at again.

 

Olivia took the teapot and poured the liquid carefully into the tubes.  She pressed her lips together in a thin line and squinted.  When she was pleased with how evenly each test tube was filled, she took the sippy cup in her left hand.

 

“Towel.”

 

Margaret dabbed her forehead with a flannel.

 

Harry pressed her hands to her face.  Her skin was bright pink.  She bit her lips harder to suppress the laughter that was bubbling. 

 

Olivia turned the sippy cup on its side.  She lined it up with each vial, carefully dripping one drop of milk into each.  She sighed as she stood back.  “Okay.”  She turned around.  “Tea time!”

 

Harry guffawed.  Margaret smiled.  “I never realized tea was so dangerous.  I’m really glad you made it for us, Olivia.”

 

The toddler shot a dirty look at her aunt.  She smiled at her grandmother.  “Thank you, Nana.”  

 

Heavy footsteps raced up the stairs.  

 

“Hey, where’s my girl?”  Greg appeared at the top of the stairs.

 

“Uncle Greg!” she dashed into his arms.  

 

“Must be tea time if you’ve got the goggles on,” he pulled them off her face and covered her cheeks with kisses.  She giggled.  

 

“Hey Harry, Mrs. Watson.”  He rubbed noses with Olivia. “I’ve only come to say that Uncle Mycroft and I are off for the weekend.”

 

Harry waggled her eyebrows.  Greg bit his lip and grinned.

 

“We are going to see my kids, whom you haven’t met yet.  But I hope when they are on break from school that they can come to London to meet my favourite niece.”  He tickled her belly while he spoke.  

 

Mycroft leaned on his umbrella in the sitting room.  

 

“Turns out she was reluctant to allow Greg to see their children because she thought he’d use them to try and win back her affections.  She was quite solicitous when he told her that he was selling his flat and moving in with his  _ male life partner _ .”

 

John could not stop grinning.  

 

“Why are you smiling like that?”  Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his husband.

 

“Your brother and Greg are adorable.  I’m just happy for them.”

 

Sherlock and Mycroft exchanged disgusted looks.  

 

“He’ll smile like this for a long time, you know.  Please stop being adorable, brother mine.” Sherlock flopped into his chair.

 

“I shall endeavour to desist in my adorableness.”

 

John looked from one to the other.  “Happiness suits the Holmes boys.  Don’t deny it.”

 

“Does my happiness make me adorable, John?”  Sherlock looked at him over the rim of his tea cup.

 

“When you aren’t being a total prat.”

**Author's Note:**

> The title is an Erasure song. Even though I don't use the lyrics anywhere in this story, I felt it worked as a title.


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